Sizzling Pages is celebrating the birthday of one of our
favorite fighters, Remington “Riptide” Tate. In honor of his
birthday, enter Katy Evans Rafflecopter for a chance to win an ebook
The Seattle crowd is
wild tonight. Backstage, the noise reverberates between the walls, bounces off
the metal lockers in the room where I prepare with some of the other fighters.
I watch Coach bandage the fingers of one hand, and all I can think of is how
Brooke Dumas is out there among the spectators, sitting in one of the seats I
bought for her.
I’m so jacked up I
feel like I’m plugged into a fucking electrical outlet. Blood pumps heady
through my veins. My muscles are loose and warm and ready to contract and
strike anything in my path. I’m ready to put on a fucking show and there’s one
girl, one lovely girl, that’s got me tied up in knots, that I want to see me
I hand Coach my
other hand and stare at my bare knuckles as he shoots off the same instructions
he always says.
My guard . . .
patience . . . balance . . .
I zone out, letting
his words slip through me and into my subconscious, where they belong. Right
before a fight, I find a calm. I can hear all the noise but listen to nothing.
A clarity comes with fighting. Every detail sharpening in your mind.
This sharpness and
awareness makes me lift my head to the doorway. She stands there like out of
some childhood dream, looking at nobody but me.
She wears a pair of
white jeans and a pink top that makes her skin look even tanner than it is and
so damn lickable my tongue hurts inside my mouth. Neither of us so much as
twitches as we stare.
Hammer steps into my
peripherals, and when I see him head straight for her, my anger ignites.
With deadly calm, I
grab the tape from Coach and throw it aside as I stalk over to her. Then, I
position myself directly behind her and to her right, taking my spot in a way
that lets the dipshit Hammer know I was born to be here. Beside, behind, and by
“Just walk off,” I
warn him, my voice low but lethal.
He doesn’t seem
inclined to listen, instead narrows his eyes in contest.
“She yours?” he asks
with narrowed eyes.
Nodding, I narrow my
eyes and let my gaze burn into him. “I can guarantee you, she’s not yours.”
The asshole leaves,
and I notice Brooke doesn’t move for a long second, as if she doesn’t want to
step away from me in the same way I don’t want her to go anywhere. Holy god,
she smells good.
I drag her scent to
my lungs like a junkie, and suddenly every inch of my body wants to cup her
hips and draw her into me so I can scent her more. She turns her head to mine
and softly murmurs, “Thank you,” but quickly leaves. I duck my head and haul in
as much as I can before she walks away.
I remain standing
there, feeling dizzy, my shorts ridiculously tented.
You’re up next!”
Exhaling as I hear
my name, I glance narrowly at Hammer across the room, who seems amused as fuck
that I am clearly in deep shit with this girl.
He’s in even deeper
shit with me.
“Remington . . . are
you listening to me?”
I whip around to
Coach, who’s fixing that last bandage he couldn’t secure. I keep glaring at
Hammer as Riley extends my satin robe, and as I ram my arms into the sleeves, I
decide Hammer better be prepared to vacation in a coma for a while.
“I said don’t let
that bastard get to your head.” Coach knocks his knuckles to my temples. “And
that girl neither.”
“That girl’s been in
his head since the first fight here,” Riley tells him with a smirk. “Hell, he
wants to carry that girl around with him like an accessory on tour. Pete is
drafting the contract as we speak.”
Coach pokes a finger
into my chest and I feel it almost bending. “I don’t give a shit what you’re
planning to do tonight with the girl. You keep your head in the fight going on
right now. You got that?”
I don’t answer, but
obviously I get it. I don’t need to be told these things. Half a fight is in
your head. But Coach likes feeling useful, so I just roll with it and trot out.
I’ve fought all my life to stay sane. To keep focused, driven, and centered.
But tonight, I fight to show one woman my worth.